


Nightmares and Ghosts

by kingbooooo



Series: One Week of Terror 2020 [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Fix-It, Ghosts, M/M, OWOT2020, One Week of Terror, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, but some of your favorites did, is it trauma or is it the supernatural who's to say really, two very chaste kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27097219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingbooooo/pseuds/kingbooooo
Summary: “Nightmares?” Francis had asked, both of them on the floor, seated awkwardly.  It was uncomfortable, but he did not want to get up, to move away from James, to whom he was now tethered, regardless of whether he wanted to be.“And guilt,” James replied, nodding and looking down, a finger digging into the rug.- - -Francis and James return from the arctic.  They're not the only ones.One Week of Terror Day 1: "It's just the wind."
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Series: One Week of Terror 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982428
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	Nightmares and Ghosts

“Come away from the window, love.”

James’ voice sounded as though he was calling across the wastes, faint, but the sound was loud enough to pull Francis back to the now, away from the ice, the north, the cold, that leaden feeling in his arms and legs and joints.

The weight of the loss stayed the same. The men. _His_ men.

“Not only yours,” James had said quietly when Francis had told him of how they haunted him, followed and lingered like smoke in a room hours after a candle had been extinguished. “The dead are always with us, but you needn’t bear this burden alone.”

_Always with us. How right you are,_ Francis thought. His fingers twitched at the curtains. The fire, which James had spent a half-hour fussing over until he was able to get it banked low and steady, warmed the room. Francis could feel it on his back, but the heat never fully chased away the chill. It was never enough. Blankets, heavy coats, an itchy homemade lumpy woolen muffler. Francis supposed the rough burn of rum might be worth trying, but he suspected it wouldn’t and the risk was not worth taking.

James’ embrace came close, though. Francis looked over his shoulder, James ensconced in a wingback chair, a book propped up on his knees. James wasn’t just the only person Francis could confide in, he was the only person that Francis wanted to confide in.

He’d wanted to unburden himself the moment they’d reached England, but James had been most unwell until many months later. Francis had called upon him, the conversation horribly stilted and formal until Francis had made to leave.

“For god’s sake Francis, if you go without at least discussing this millstone around our necks, I swear I will never speak to you again.”

Francis had nearly sunk to the floor, James’ arms around him, supporting him. 

“Nightmares?” Francis had asked, both of them on the floor, seated awkwardly. It was uncomfortable, but he did not want to get up, to move away from James, to whom he was now tethered, regardless of whether he wanted to be.

“And guilt,” James replied, nodding and looking down, a finger digging into the rug.

“I know. I’m always cold.”

A hand tentatively reached out for Francis’, taking it. He was so warm, Francis marveled as he looked up.

James’ face had such a strange look. Was it fear? His eyes kept flitting to Francis and away, his lips slightly parted, a door slightly ajar.

Francis leaned in and kissed James.

“Oh,” was the response.

He’d miscalculated. That was not an invitation. 

“Oh, I-”

James kissed him back.

Two confirmed bachelors living together raised a few eyebrows, but not enough for either to care.

\- - -

“What is it?” James asked.

Francis glanced back out of the window, rain lashing the panes.

The men they’d left behind. Sir John had been gone longer. He was more insubstantial, more of a vague impression. Collins’ shade had a vacant gaze, distracted, it appeared, by something unseen or unheard. Jopson. He’d succumbed two days before Ross’ rescue had arrived. Francis had wept over him, or he would have if he’d been able to force the tears out, his throat raw and pinching closed with grief. Jopson’s eyes were hollow, a stare of guilt and anger.

It wasn’t every lost soul. Lieutenant Gore wasn’t there. Or Lady Silence’s father. The men lost at Carnival. 

Strangest of all was the tuunbaq. James’ rocket must have mortally wounded it, the shoulder a blackened ruin as it stalked and paced outside. It seemed to eye the others, never looking at Francis.

They never came inside. But neither did they leave him.

“Francis?” James was behind him.

“What is it? Should we retire for the evening?” Francis turned, letting his hand fall from the curtain, taking one of James’, that heat softening the piercing chill he felt upon seeing the incorporeal guilt that had followed him home. He looked up, expecting reassurance from James. Instead, James’ eyes were focused somewhere behind Francis, brows furrowing.

“James?”

James started, his gaze meeting Francis, his expression fading into a tired smile.

“Nothing, dearest. It’s just the wind.” His long arms reached out and pulled the curtains closed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to KitsuneArtemis on Twitter for the One Week of Terror prompts!
> 
> October 19: Haunted/Burial/There Will Be Blood: "It's just the wind."
> 
> Come find me on twitter - kiingboooo (two i's)


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